


Patriot of a Moonless Night

by theyoginicat



Category: Generation Kill, Nikita (TV 2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Assassins & Hitmen, BAMFs, Dialogue Heavy, Explicit Language, Injury, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Revenge, Spies & Secret Agents, shady government agencies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 19:29:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11020026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theyoginicat/pseuds/theyoginicat
Summary: Brad Colbert used to be a United States Marine until six years ago, when he was recruited by a secret government organization called Reconnaissance that faked his death and trained him to be an assassin. He thought he was serving his country, but it soon became clear he was really serving the man that ran Recon, and Godfather didn’t serve anyone but himself and his wallet. Three years ago, Brad escaped and has been planning his revenge against the organization that forced him to spill innocent blood ever since. It’s finally time he’s come out of hiding to make his first move.





	Patriot of a Moonless Night

**Author's Note:**

> They made him this way, but right about now? They’re probably starting to regret it. Too bad it’s too late. For them.
> 
> A snippet of a Nikita AU based on the scene in the first episode where she lets Michael corner her in the alley.

He sprinted through the tiny, maze-like halls in the depths of the hotel until he found the door he was looking for. Pounding footsteps sounded menacingly in the near distance, amplified by the narrow passageways. He slammed his body against the door leading to the dark and dingy alleyway behind the ritzy building. The door gave way and then he was heading toward the farther opening of the alley, hoping to make it into the cover of the shadows before disappearing anonymously into the bustling city. But his pursuer was too fast. The service door didn’t even close all the way behind him before he heard it slam open again. He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the man vault over the railing and land nimbly on the uneven asphalt, disturbing the greasy puddles as he raised an arm and took aim. Brad focussed back on where he was going so as not to trip and put on an extra, desperate burst of speed. 

“Brad!” 

He heard the achingly familiar voice before he heard the shot echo in the dark alley. There was a fraction of a second before a bulled zipped over his shoulder, a warning. Close enough to be audible and create a breeze, but far enough away to be just this side of what would’ve been reckless. Nate had always been an excellent shot with a handgun. He always hit what he aimed for. 

Brad laughed to himself and then slowed, stopped, and raised his hands, still holding his Glock in his right. His heart was racing, pounding in his ears, more from the thrill of Nate’s proximity than the sprint out of the ballroom and though the cramped service hallways. It was annoying and somehow comforting that Nate still had this effect on him. His heart ached. It had been so long. 

“Ditch the gun,” Nate called, calm and in control, as authoritative as ever. He didn’t even sound winded from their little chase just moments before. 

Brad complied, flicking the safety on and lazily tossing it to his side. He spread his fingers to show his hands were empty. He still had the Beretta tucked into his waistband anyhow. Brad heard Nate’s careful footfalls as he approached slowly on the wet pavement.

“Keep your hands in the air and get on the ground. Slowly. Don’t turn around,” Nate ordered in a firm but emotionless voice. 

Brad peeked over his shoulder. Most of Nate’s face was hidden in the shadows, but his eyes glittered dangerously in the dim yellow streetlight. 

The people who didn’t know Nate like Brad did, they would get distracted by his angel face and sweet mouth, falling completely for the façade and assuming he was about as harmless as he looked. That would be a fatal mistake on their part. Brad knew better. Nate was deadly as they came. Razor sharp, clever, crafty, and cunning, he had a tactical mind like no one Brad knew and his physicality and training backed his plans up and saw them through. Brad wasn’t going to be stupid here, he was just going to push back a little. Hopefully Nate still liked him enough not to kill him in this disgusting alley. 

He caught Nate’s eyes over his shoulder and turned all the way around, in direct violation of the orders he had been issued. He watched Nate carefully for signs his stunt wasn’t going to be tolerated. 

Nate tensed, but his hands were steady. “Stop fucking around, Brad. On the ground. Now,” he growled. His face was arranged in the closed off mask that he usually presented to the likes of Schwetje, Griego, or even Godfather. Seeing it now stung a little, Brad thought their history warranted better.

Brad didn’t make a move to obey, just kept staring at the man that had been his anchor in the cruel, unforgiving ocean of misery that was Reconnaissance. He was the one thing Brad had wanted to take with him from that hellhole. 

Of course, Nate had been the enemy first. One of them, stubbornly loyal to Ferrando for some unfathomable reason. But as time had dragged by in Recon, he became a mentor, a protector, then a handler, and then, maybe even a friend. Maybe even something more. Brad wasn’t sure where his escape had left them, but he had always trusted Nate, maybe too much. He didn’t think Nate would kill him tonight. 

“Nate.” 

Innocent enough, but the single word carried all the emotions that were rattling around in his chest. Nate could always read between the lines when he and Brad spoke, he’d hear it.

But Nate was unmoved. His features remained impassive save for a twitch of impatience. “You have two seconds to get on the ground before I put a bullet through your kneecap.” 

Apparently, Nate was electing to ignore whatever he’d heard in Brad’s voice. Brad huffed and chose a different approach. 

“C’mon, Nate. If you had any intention of shooting me tonight, you’d’ve already done it. Why don’t you put the gun away and we can have a civilized conversation?” He lowered his hands and took a step forward, trying to project harmlessness and amity. He’d gone two feet when Nate pulled his trigger the second time, loud in the alley, the bullet going outside his leg, a hair shy of his right kneecap. It said, ‘Stay right there. Don’t move.’ Brad immediately stopped and swallowed, painting a fake smile on his face. 

“Solid copy,” he called cheerily. 

Nate didn’t smile back. “The next one won’t be a warning,” he promised. He still kept the gun steady on Brad.

Brad felt like rolling his eyes. Where was the trust?

“What are you doing here?” Nate demanded suddenly. 

“I’m taking Godfather out, Nate, and I’m bringing Recon down with him.”

Emotions flickered across Nate’s face and he opened his mouth, but Brad cut him off before he could start.

“I want you to leave Recon and help me, but I know you feel you need to stay there and protect the other recruits. Like you protected me.” 

Surprisingly, Nate grimaced and closed his eyes as if in pain, turning his face partly away. “Brad,” he said in a strangled voice. 

“I want you to come with me, but I understand why you can’t. I don’t have any grievances with you, but get in my way, and I won’t hesitate to kill you.” That last part was a lie, but Nate didn’t need to know that. 

Nate shook his head minutely, like he was tired, disappointed. “And after all these years, I thought you were the one person I could trust not to hurt me, Brad.” Nate was calling his bluff. 

“We’re not exactly on the same side anymore, LT. You trained me, you know what I’m capable of. You’re lying to yourself if you think I couldn’t,” he threw back. 

Nate’s eyes were deep and unreadable over the gun he had pointed at Brad. “I know exactly what you can do, Brad. I’m saying I think you wouldn’t,” he enunciated. 

“I wouldn’t push me,” Brad growled back. “A lot has changed.” 

“Really,” Nate challenged, sneering. It sounded mocking. 

No. Not the important parts. “Yeah,” Brad returned, icy cold. 

The weariness crept into Nate’s features again, he lowered the gun a hair. “Brad,” he started, suddenly gentle. “You got out,” he whispered. “You were put through hell, and you didn’t deserve that, and I take responsibility for my part in that,” his voice wavered a little, “but you got out,” he repeated. “Why the fuck would you come back to this?” His eyes were sad. 

“I just told you—”

“You know that’s impossible—”

“Watch me!”

“I’m not talking about you,” Nate snapped. 

They glared at each other.

“You can’t touch Godfather, Brad.” He sounded exhausted, drained; tired of doing a job there’s no good or right way to do. 

“I can’t believe you think I can’t do it,” Brad seethed. 

Nate opened his mouth to protest, but Brad talked over him. 

“I’m going to Recon and I’m going to kill the guards and the stupid officers and Sixta and that slimy weasel Griego. Then I’m going to burn that place to the ground and anyone who tries to stop me will get a bullet in their head, including you. Then I’m going to slit Ferrando’s throat and set fire to his carcass and dance on the flames.” 

There was a moment of silence as Nate viciously controlled whatever it was his facial expression was trying to do. Brad had always thought Nate was too nice, too pure almost, to be in this business. He had a terrible poker face, and could barely manage all the lying it required. Finally, Nate’s broken voice drifted across the space between them. 

“You’d do that to your country, Brad? America would never recover from the fallout.”

“That’s ridiculous. This country would be better off for it.”

“Yeah? And what about all his little black boxes?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Nate’s eyes flashed. “I’m talking about the kind of dirty little secrets that start big fucking wars.” 

“Oh, dirty little secrets like me?”

Nate met his eyes with a spark of anger burning there. “Stop playing coy. Kill Godfather and all you accomplish is starting an avalanche that buries this country under shit so deep, not even you could find what’s left of the ruins.” 

“It’s about time someone in this piece of shit government opened their goddamn eyes and paid attention to what they’re letting happen right under their fucking noses. So much the better if people find out exactly what it was he was doing with his slice of the defense budget funded by taxpayer dollars.”

“You’re not hearing me,” Nate insisted, his tone of voice growing more annoyed. “You and I both know that Godfather and Recon hasn’t operated within anyone’s idea of the law for the last ten years, likely back farther than that.”

Brad rolled his eyes and snorted. “Tell me something I don’t know.” 

“Brad, he’s got evidence of secrets so nasty they could make bin Laden look like an upstanding citizen standing next to the things Recon has done in America’s name. I’m talking details on intelligence rings, black ops: names, dates, and locations. Wetwork, Brad. The kind that’s not operating with any defense purpose, the kind that’s for profit.”

Brad froze. Okay. He…didn’t know that. Dazed, he shook his head like that might actually help. The enormity of it hit Brad like a eighteen wheeler. Why had he never heard of this? Why didn’t it ever come up while he was at Recon, or while he was putting plans together over the last three years? Did this change things? Yes, fuck, how could it not change things? 

Nate obviously took pity on him, watching him reel with the lengths the bastard was willing to go to stay in power. 

“He keeps the insurance in secure, self-contained databases hidden all over the world. I think there are five in total. He has agents loyal to him gauging them at all times. He dies, and they upload everything to the internet. Calls them ‘black boxes.’ I thought you knew,” he said helplessly. 

Brad nodded distractedly, he had a lot of thinking to do. Three years of plans just went down the toilet, he was going to have to start over. He was going to need Walt to step up, hidden within Recon, to get him information on these so called black boxes. He jolted back to the present.

“So. Now you know my nefarious plans.”

Nate sighed. 

“Shoot me or let me go, Nate. I don’t have time to stand around and chit chat.”

Nate seemed to hesitate for a second, then his eyes softened and he lowered the weapon he had been pointing at Brad the whole time. His entire frame relaxed and his expression was open and earnest. “I wanted better for you. I thought that maybe after you got out, you could find a way to be happy. You know, normal,” he said with a wry tilt to his mouth. “No more people waving guns at you,” he added sardonically, looking down at his own sidearm and flicking the safety on. 

Brad felt a painful tightening in his chest. 

Nate looked at him like he used to when they were on ops together, after the bullets were done flying, when things were quiet. “I’m sorry. For all of it. For what Ferrando took from you. The ways I enabled and helped him.” He looked around the alley, unable to meet Brad’s eyes. “But you should let this go. I have a feeling you won’t,” he met Brad’s eyes again, “but you should.” 

Brad didn’t trust his voice so he only nodded dumbly again. Nate was right. He wasn’t going to let this go. 

“I’ve missed you,” Nate said suddenly. He looked like he instantly regretted it, flushing and looking away quickly. “Well.” He cleared his throat. “Um. You should probably get going,” he mumbled. “I’ll go deal with Schwetje and Godfather. Tell them you got away.” He gestured back toward the door and turned away hastily. 

“Nate,” Brad called, desperate for more time with him, if only a few seconds. Nate turned back with a guarded, but hopeful look. “I missed you, too,” he said gruffly. 

Nate hid the sad grin that was trying to break free and nodded sharply. “Stay away from Recon, Brad,” he begged. 

Brad knew what Nate was asking. They were playing a dangerous game even doing what they were doing right now. It would be hard enough for Nate to make up a reason Brad had gotten away tonight. If Nate appeared to be protecting Brad, it would mean his cancellation in all likelihood. Brad had an idea to give him some cover for tonight, and it served the dual purpose of letting Godfather know he wasn’t fucking around. Nate wouldn’t like it though. 

Nate went on. “If we cross paths on Recon ops again, I can’t guarantee what will happen,” he warned. 

Brad steeled himself for what he had to do next. 

“I can.” He reached for his gun, took aim, and pulled the trigger in a smooth motion; aiming to wing him. Nate was spun halfway around violently as the bullet ripped through his left bicep. He gasped and dropped to his knees, pressing his right hand to the injury, which was seeping blood. Brad was on him in a second, kicking away his forgotten gun before crouching beside him and using one hand to pry away Nate’s fingers and get a look at the damage. It wasn’t terrible. It was clean; a deep graze, missing the bone completely. It would heal easily in a couple weeks with a few stitches. The fancy suit was schwacked, though. Honestly, Nate would probably be more upset about that than the graze. Brad tucked his own gun away and glanced a cautious look at Nate’s face. His features were warring between pain, confusion, disbelief, and anger. He pressed Nate’s hand back to the site to apply pressure. 

“What…” 

Nate sounded furious. Typical. He and Brad rarely agreed on strategy. But, Brad would take his bitching as a good sign, at least he wasn’t going into shock or about to lose consciousness. 

“It’s a good wound,” he reassured him. “They’ll think you tried to stop me,” he said, praying that Nate could still read between his lines like he had in Recon. He hoped Nate picked up on them, ‘I want to protect you. I still care about you.’ 

He watched as grudging acceptance eventually crept across Nate’s pale features. Then he allowed himself one last look, taking in everything to tide him over until the next time he could see Nate. He placed a careful hand on Nate’s cheek. Nate’s green eyes were veritably burning into his, pupils a bit dilated from the adrenaline of his pain. Brad wanted to kiss him, but figured it was too soon after shooting him for Nate to let him get away with it.

“I’ll see you around, Nate. Get this patched up and tell Godfather to go fuck himself for me,” he murmured. 

“Wait!” Nate lunged for him, —if he wasn’t injured, Brad would’ve been in trouble— but Brad was ready for it and shook him off easily. He ran out the mouth of the alley and without a glance back, slipped along the pavement and blended with the shadows. 

He had been trained meticulously for this kind of thing, the perfect little spook assassin. Recon had made him into a living weapon, sparing no expense in his education and indoctrination into the world of wetwork and black ops. He had been highly effective as an obedient and loyal operative before he escaped. Godfather’s favorite, in fact. They called him Iceman, for how detached and impersonal he acted on ops. For his precision, his ruthlessness, his single-minded attention to the job. For the way that he could kill without showing that he even felt it, icy cold. 

Recon’s only mistake was perhaps in falling for the persona, assuming he was the unfeeling drone that would always obey orders unquestioningly that he projected. They eventually pushed him too far, made the mistake of pissing him off and training him too well. Because now he was free, he was too fucked up for a normal life like Nate had wanted for him. No, the only thing left for him to do was to avenge himself of the blood on his hands. And to do that, he was going to destroy the thing that created him. The irony of the situation didn’t escape him, —coldhearted assassin destroys coldhearted organization that taught him everything he knows— but sometimes, the world doesn’t need a shining hero to defeat the big bad monster. Sometimes, only another monster can do that, and Brad was prepared to go as far as needed to take Godfather and Reconnaissance down. His face would be the last thing they saw before the end. The last breath across their lips would be his name.

...

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed. Title is a nod to Thomas Paine's 'The Crisis.' The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot and all.


End file.
